Letters to my Worst Nightmare
by xaritomene
Summary: It should never have happened. Not then; not at a school like Hogwarts, and definitely not to a girl like Hermione Granger. But it did.


People, I return, once again! After battling through countless pieces of coursework, and writer's block, I have FINALLY got round to doing this - it's been on my mind for a while now, and I decided it was too good a chance to miss.

(Not that I've necessarily finished said coursework, of course... I just felt that you people were worth more than my A2 results...)

So - here we go. Please review, because otherwise I'll cry big salty tears up and down that damn football pitch every Saturday. And you wouldn't want that, would you.

I love you all, please be nice.

Xari xxxx

PS: Be nice to **Amitai**, too. She's hurt her foot, and is in a great deal of pain. Everybody say 'aaaaaaaaaaaaah', and of course, review.

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* * *

_

_Drip... drip..._

_There's a tap that drips in the bathroom next to my room.__ It's been dripping for ages now. Filch won't come and sort it, probably in case – shock horror! – he actually sees a girl._

_Drip... drip... Sometimes it's so quiet that I barely notice it; sometimes it's a lullaby that soothes me after a hellish day. Sometimes, like tonight, it's like thunder. Distracting. Boring into my skull. It makes me uneasy._

_Like you. Drip... Drip... Pregnant... pregnant... what if I'm pregnant? I wish they could fix you, like they could fix that tap._

_Little alien inside me, won't you go away?_

_Please go away.

* * *

_

Ginny wasn't going to pretend she was thrilled when Harry and Hermione had announced their undying love for one-another. She admitted it; she was biased – her own, humiliating, publicly-known adoration for Harry kept her from fully accepting this new, unexpected turn of events.

But it was odd. Very odd, in fact, as Harry and Hermione, when she got down to the real grit, had almost nothing in common. All right, both were Gryffindors, of half-blood parentage and together had faced the evils of the wizarding world, but when Ginny thought about it... they were different. For one thing, Hermione's IQ was easily fifty points above Harry's, and it was plain that, to her, qualifications and knowledge were the absolute and only priorities, of which friends and/or a social life came a firm second. And she was ambitious. She had also a complete lack of interest in the things Harry was interested in, like Quidditch, or models of broomstick. Harry, in turn, could not have cared less about his NEWTs results, or rising in the world – he had already been offered a place at the Ministry of Magic after he had left school. The least the Ministry could do for their saviour, reflected Ginny, was ensure that he had a future without having to earn it.

The next minute, she shook her head. Bitter, at sixteen years old. She wished there was someone she could talk to. Ron, no; her other brothers, definitely not; her mother would simply cluck her tongue and say that it was about time that 'that poor boy' had some happiness in his life. But he'd been happy with _me_, Ginny wanted to say. Before the war, before he and the others came back to study for the exams they had missed during their year on the run. Before Hermione...

Hermione sat on the steps of the Divination Tower, knowing full well that nobody would even thinking about coming up for their lesson until at least five minutes before the bell. She was grateful for that; she needed time to think, something difficult to do in Gryffindor Common Room, a constant source of noise and year-mates to come and chatter to her. She wanted to be alone, because it was only alone that she could confront what was fast becoming a living nightmare.

She hugged her knees to her chest, both to warm herself against the bitter wind streaming through the broken windows, and because she wanted someone – something – to hug besides Harry. She couldn't go near Harry right now. At least, not without recoiling as though he'd bitten her. Nor could she talk to Ginny, who was making excuses to Harry as to why she couldn't join them for this trip, or that party. For the most part, she looked straight through Hermione. When Hermione had blurted out an apology – for what, she wasn't quite sure; for taking Ginny's place? For stealing Harry? For simply doing what had been expected of them for years? – Ginny had ignored her.

At first, being Harry's girlfriend had been wonderful – what she'd been looking forward to from day one, or so she'd thought. From being the bookish sidekick, she'd been boosted up the social scale, some of Harry's glamour and saviour-status rubbing off on her. For the first time in her life, she _had_ a life. A social life. Suddenly, Parvati and Lavender would link arms with her, and they'd gossip in corners of the tea shop in Hogsmeade, or have deep conversations about love, and how Hermione felt, and how Harry felt. Never having been one of a gang of girls before, Hermione had enjoyed being the centre of attention. Then, Ron, to the utter shock of both the Slytherin and Gryffindor camps, had defiantly started going out with Pansy Parkinson. Harry had ranted and raved to her, pacing the Common Room over and over again. Why would he do this? Why? How could he do this to us? Ginny, reading a book in the corner, had answered coolly enough. Her brother was in love with Hermione, but since she obviously preferred Harry, he had no choice but to settle for second-best.

Her words had sunk into Hermione's skin like barbs.

Then, through the fault of neither and both, it all started to go wrong. Devastated and angry by Ron's defection, Harry had a blazing row with him that almost escalated into a full-out brawl. Now, they no longer spoke to each other, Ron spending more and more time with Pansy, Dean or Seamus. In turn, Harry grew more possessive of Hermione, and Hermione found herself surprisingly annoyed. Soon, she flinched at his arm sliding around her waist, or gritted her teeth when he called her name. She was frustrated with him, with Ron, with Ginny, but above all with herself. This was what she had always longed for, and now she wanted to throw it away, simply because little things about their relationship irritated her? Even in her head, it sounded stupid.

She had been ashamed at how grateful she was to move out of the House when appointed Head Girl. She wanted some peace, and in the absence of Ron, Harry would dog her footsteps, all soulful glances and endearments. He would sit with her in the Common Room as she did homework, just watching her. It both unnerved and exasperated her. Now, they spent less time together as Hermione made excuses, compromising by coming to watch him play Quidditch in the grounds, or having lunch with him in Hogsmeade. Tenuously, their relationship had started to get back on its feet.

Huddling against the wall as another icy blast of wind howled up the tower, Hermione fought back the tears. It would not do for her year-mates to see her cry, even if her eyes had been red-rimmed for days. Seeing her cry would only prompt questions, and this question was not one that she wanted to answer. She tried to force her usually adept mind to produce a solution, but all she got was a blank. Reaching inside her pocket, she withdrew the small, white stick she'd been holding all day. Now, she clutched it convulsively, resisting the urge to throw the horrible thing down and crush it under her shoes. Opening her fingers, she stared with mixed terror and loathing at the stick, as the faint, persistent blue line burned into her eyes.

* * *

From across the Potions classroom, Ginny watched Hermione intently. Something was wrong. For a start, Hermione was late for Potions. Hermione had never been late for anything in her life. Then, instead of apologising sincerely, sweetly to Professor Snape as was her custom for any error, she simply – slunk – to her seat, and sat down. When Snape, puce with rage, had heaped abuse and punishments on her, she had just sat there, with an almost sullen look on her face. Yes, thought Ginny, meditatively. Something was wrong. With Harry and Hermione? A faint hope rose in Ginny's stomach. As the bell rang, and everyone lurched to their feet, she saw Harry reach out a comforting hand to pat Hermione's back. The girl shrank back, swatting his hand away, crossly, and left the room. Seeing Harry's face fall, Ginny longed to hug him, to kiss away the confused, hurt look on his face, to draw him back to her. Inside, she knew it was pointless. He was Hermione's now; Hermione was just going through a bad patch, and he was bearing the brunt of it. They _were_ spending a lot of time together, she had to admit. She noticed Ron heading off to Transfiguration, and ran to catch up. The Slytherins didn't have lessons with the Gryffindors that year, and, without Pansy, Ron was a relatively open ear.

"Something's wrong," Ginny told him, breathlessly.

"Wrong?" Ron blinked at her. "With you? Are you all right?"

"No, not me," snapped Ginny, impatiently, "With Hermione and Harry."

Ron's face closed off, as it always did when that particular subject came up.

"So?" he asked, shortly, "what about them?"

"I... I don't know," she conceded, "but if it carries on, you might be in with a chance, again."

Ron groaned.

"Not this again, Gin. Look, I _know_ you miss him, but there's nothing you can do. You have to let it go – I have."

"Yeah, I can see that," jibed his sister, snidely, and then her tone softened. "Ron, going out with Pansy isn't working – they don't care, and it's just hurting Harry. If you –"

"I like Pansy, Ginny," interrupted Ron, frowning. "I'm perfectly happy to carry on going out with her, and I'm not going to string her along just to try and get back at – them."

They had reached the Transfiguration classroom. Ron slid an arm round Ginny's shoulders and hugged her.

"Let it go, yeah?" he whispered, and went to his seat.

Scowling, ears burning red, Ginny slung her bag onto the desk, and sat down, heavily. As McGonagall started the lesson, she stole a sideways glance at Hermione, who was slumped in her chair, paying no attention whatsoever. Ginny's scowl deepened as she took in Hermione's appearance. Her face was waxy white, her eyes bloodshot. It was the face of a girl who had been crying – an ill girl who had been crying. So she did care, after all. In spite of their recent differences, Ginny felt a stab of compassion for the girl who had once been her friend. Looking down at Hermione's fingers, she saw they were shaking, trembling too hard for her to write.

* * *

"Miss Granger!" McGonagall's voice rang out. "Could you answer that question for me, please?"

Hermione's head spun as she slowly lifted it from her arms. There was no point pretending. She couldn't concentrate today, and any attempts at a guess would incur more wrath. All she could think of was that white stick, still in the pocket of her skirt, digging into her leg. Licking her dry lips, she tried to focus on Professor McGonagall's face.

"No, Professor, she whispered, faintly.

McGonagall's thin eyebrows lifted.

"You can't answer?"

"No, Professor."

"Not even if you think carefully?"

"No, Professor."

"Have you been listening _at all_ to what I've been saying, Miss Granger?"

"...No, Professor."

"You haven't!" McGonagall's voice rose. "Well, I am surprised, Miss Granger. Very surprised, indeed. May I remind you that your NEWTs are starting in _six_ months? May I also remind you of the fact that you haven't handed in a single piece of work this term? Honestly, girl, I thought you cared more than that. What is the _matter_ with you, Miss Granger? You used to –"

"I'm going to be sick," croaked Hermione, and lunged for the door. They could hear her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Professor McGonagall looked through the open door with concern.

"Ah, dear. It happens, though, when the pressure starts to pile on. Will one of you girls please go and see if Miss Granger is all right?"

To her own surprise, Ginny heard her voice say:

"I'll go."

Avoiding Harry's eye, she grabbed her bag and left the classroom, following the route Hermione had taken. Something nagged at the corner of her mind. Hermione was waxen, not eating, crying and now being sick. Ginny growled in frustration. Waxen, loss of appetite, crying, and vomiting... waxen, loss of appetite, crying and vomiting... what _was_ it? Waxen, loss of appetite, crying and vomiting... waxen, loss of appetite, cry –

She was jerked out of her thoughts by a crunching sound underfoot. Stepping back, startled, she lifted her foot to reveal a shattered, white object. She knelt down, and picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. Hermione had obviously dropped it; no-one else had been down the corridor. Ginny stared at it, curiously. What could it be? Looking at the little, cracked screen, she saw a dim blue line.

"What are you doing down there, Weasley?" drawled a voice. Ginny scowled, standing up, still holding onto the little white thing.

Pansy Parkinson, all legs and mascara in a too-short skirt wandered towards her, a malicious smile snaking around her lips.

"Fuck off, Parkinson, before I hurt you," snarled Ginny, turning to leave. As always, there was little love lost between the Slytherin and Gryffindor girls.

"Ooh, tetchy, are we, today? Now, isn't that odd? Then again, if Saint Potter is having it off with the Mudblood, then I suppose you have a –"

"Don't you _dare_," hissed Ginny, turning crimson with rage. Turning away down the corridor, she heard Pansy's snide laughter stop abruptly.

"What have you got there, Weasley?" she called.

Ignoring her, Ginny continued to stride towards the bathrooms.

"Hey, Weasley, stop a minute!" Pansy sounded both cruelly amused and intrigued.

Once again, Ginny ignored her, concentrating on getting away from her as fast as she could.

"Funny, though," Pansy mused, softly, just loud enough for Ginny to hear. "I didn't think you were the type to get yourself pregnant."

Ginny almost fell over in shock.

"What?" she squeaked, in disbelief. "_What_?"

"You heard," Pansy was now grinning, spitefully. "Don't worry, I won't tell the Mudblood your – little secret."

"Hermione!" gasped Ginny faintly, her numb mind piecing the puzzle together.

"Yeah – it's Potter's, isn't it? I knew she couldn't hold him. So – how long have your little trysts been going on for?"

"It's – it's not mine," Ginny blurted, her head reeling.

"Yeah, yeah. Pull the other one, it's got bells on," replied Pansy, sarcastically. "Are you going to have it or not?"

"I'm _serious_, Parkinson," she snapped. "It's none of your business whose it is, anyway. Now, just go away."

She headed away once again towards the toilets, before hearing the 'clack-clack' of heels behind her.

"Where are you going, Weaslette?"

"Bugger off, _fast_, or will I have to hurt you?"

"Now, now, would you hurt your brother's girlfriend?"

"Trust me, if it's you, then a resounding 'yes'. Now bugger off."

They were approaching the bathroom, and even around twenty metres away, Ginny could hear the sound of Hermione retching. Breaking into a run, she slammed through the bathroom door.

"Hermione," she yelled, authoritatively.

She spotted the older girl, curled up in a cubicle next to the toilet, her face even paler, and her forehead dotted with sweat. A clicking noise alerted her to the fact that Pansy had joined them. Suddenly, Hermione lurched into an upright position over the toilet, and threw up, vainly trying to keep her hair out of the way. Cautiously, Ginny came over to her, and held her hair away from her face as she vomited.

A slow exhalation behind her told Ginny that Pansy had finally clocked on to what was happening.

"Good God..." she breathed. "I never thought I'd see the day. Well, well, little Goody-Two-Shoes Granger, tarnished. What will everybody think of that?"

"Pansy..."

"Granger, pregnant," continued Pansy, mockingly. Hermione, shaking harder than ever, gave a little sob. "Granger, outed. Granger, expelled."

"Parkinson, I _swear_..." spat Ginny, twisting round to face her.

Pansy raised her arched brows, waiting for the end of the sentence. In the end, Ginny sighed, tiredly.

"Look, just help me clean her up, will you?"

Pansy hesitated, obviously not too keen to get too near to the vomit-covered Hermione, and then stepped forward. Together, the two girls hauled Hermione away from the toilet, and propped her against the wall. Ginny gently swabbed Hermione's face with a wet hand-towel, and watched as the girl's eyes fluttered open. She was deathly pale. Wordlessly, Pansy handed her a cup of water, which Hermione drank down, thankfully.

Ginny stood back, different emotions churning in her stomach. Hermione was pregnant with Harry's child. He'd never leave her now; he was too honourable. Then again, if Ginny could persuade her not to have the baby... a moment later, she grimaced in revulsion at the thought. No; it was Hermione's choice, and, for a while, her feelings must be left out of it. Pansy also watched the exhausted girl, speculatively. When it was clear that Hermione had finished vomiting, Pansy smiled, brightly.

"Let the interrogation begin, then. Weasley," she added, sweetly, "Fire away."

Ginny simply stared at Hermione, speechless. Pansy clucked her tongue, disapprovingly.

"Fine – _I'll_ start. You're pregnant, Granger. Congratulations; this must be the most stupid thing you've done since you picked up a wand. Right: when?"

Hermione turned her face away, much to Pansy's amusement.

"Bashful, are we? It won't help you now. Are you going to have it?"

"What?" Hermione's voice was barely more than a thread.

"Are you going to have the baby," repeated Pansy, slowly, as though Hermione were dense.

"Where could she get rid of it?" asked Ginny. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded hoarse.

"It won't be easy," admitted Pansy. "She'll need proof that she can't support it, or that she's ill, or something. We don't like abortion in our world."

Hermione started to cry again, the sobs lifting her body from the wall.

"Potion's the easiest," resumed Pansy, lifting her voice, slightly over Hermione's tears. "'Cause you can get them off the black market. I wouldn't advise it, though. Get a bad one, and it'll fuck you up completely. I'd say her best bet – are you listening, Granger, it's your fix, not mine – is to find a Muggle clinic."

"Muggle clinic, right," Ginny muttered, and then frowned. "Well, she won't be able to get out of school until the end of term – that's twelve weeks away."

"It all depends on how far she's gone." Pansy bent down to shake the girl hard by the shoulder. "For fuck's sake, Granger, pull yourself together. It's just morning sickness. Now, do something useful, and tell us how far you're gone."

Hermione struggled to sit up, wiping the tears from her face.

"I don't know," she whispered to her knees. "I really don't know."

"Well, let's think back, shall we?" Ginny could feel the anger rising in her. This was Hermione's fault; she had no reason to wallow in self-pity. "When was the last time you had sex?"

Hermione thought.

_Fingers traced her body, dipping lingeringly into places that made her squirm... He bit the side of her neck; even as his hands continued to explore, tortuously, teasingly slowly... her head thrashed, restlessly from side to side as a powerful wave of sensation built inside her... she opened her mouth to cry out..._

"A – a month, maybe? A month and a half?" she rubbed her pounding head. "I can't think..."

"Well, you're going to have to," replied Ginny, roughly. She turned to glance at Pansy, who was surveying Hermione with the clinical detachment of a doctor. "What?" she asked.

Pansy cleared her throat.

"Not that I'm any expert, Granger, but I'd say you're about two months gone. You're going to have to make a decision quite fast."

Hermione nodded, shakily, staring at Pansy as though she were a ghost.

"There's another problem," added Ginny. "Harry has the right to know."

Hermione gazed at her, dazedly.

"Harry?"

"Why, yes, Granger," beamed Pansy, her eyes like stone, "The lucky father of your little sprog."

"Harry..." repeated Hermione, sounding lost.

"Yes," bit Ginny, her patience gone. "_Harry_. Are you going to tell him, or what?"

Hermione looked frankly terrified.

"I – I can't!" she half-whispered, half-screamed. "He'll –"

"Probably be ecstatic," broke in Pansy, sounding bored. "As would any teenaged father. Then again, I wouldn't trust the guy who dispatched the Dark Lord to have an overwhelmingly brilliant temper."

"Pansy" hissed Ginny, "You're not helping."

"Who said I was here to help?" Pansy turned her glacial green eyes back to Hermione. "Look, I've done all I can here – and that only because her brother happens to be the big thing in my life. For now," she amended, with a sideways glance at Ginny. "Anyway, sweetie, the rest is up to you. You're on your own."

Waving, disdainfully at the two Gryffindor girls, she exited, leaving only the reek of her scent, and words that stuck at the back of Hermione's throat.

"Abortion," she murmured to herself, staring fixedly at the floor, "doesn't sound half as nice as 'termination', don't you think?"

Ginny looked hard at her, worried.

"Are you all right? You don't feel – dizzy – do you? Are you going to be sick again?"

"No," Hermione shook her head with conscious effort. "No..."

"Come on, then, I'll take you back to Gryffindor."

Helping Hermione to stand, Ginny hoisted the older girl's weight onto her shoulders, supporting her as they started to move towards the door.

"Easy does it," muttered Ginny to herself. Carefully, she threw the pregnancy test in the direction of the bin. Mercifully, it went in, and hit the bottom with a thud. Sighing with relief, Ginny continued her slow progress with Hermione towards the door.

"Ginny..."

Hermione's voice broke, and Ginny let her go, startled. Hermione slid down her body to land on her rump, the tears flowing again. Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If they didn't get out of there now, the bell would ring for the next lesson, people would start coming in and asking questions.

"Look, please don't cry," she pleaded, patting Hermione's arm. "I know it'll be hard, and all, but it's for the best. We'll figure something out. Maybe it's just the hormones, or something. I've heard you can get really bad mood swings during the first couple of months or so..."

"You – you don't understand," choked Hermione, her words almost incoherent. "You – don't –"

"_What_ don't I understand? Tell me," cajoled Ginny, pushing hair out of Hermione's face.

"You don't understand," Hermione managed. Taking a deep breath, she spoke. It was now or never.

"The baby – the baby isn't..."

"Isn't..." prodded Ginny.

"The baby isn't Harry's," finished Hermione, so quietly that Ginny could barely hear her.

A strange, faraway ringing sounded in Ginny's ears. She slumped down onto the floor next to Hermione. The baby wasn't Harry's. Hermione – her friend – had cheated, had _cheated_ – on Harry. Hermione had had the thing Ginny most wanted within her grasp, and had abused it... him. Hardly conscious of the quietly keening girl beside her, Ginny clambered to her feet, and leaned against the doorframe.

"Hey," a voice came from her right, as Pansy's green eyes glittered in the gloom. "Cheer up, Weasley – now you have a _proper_ reason to split the lovebirds up. Potter could be all yours."


End file.
